


This is the Tea

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Sex, baby Yoda is a cheeky little shit, the tea made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: A trip to market to stock up on fresh food doesn't end as expected.OR: Grogu is a matchmaking little shit.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian x fem!reader - Relationship
Comments: 14
Kudos: 360





	This is the Tea

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I have not marked this as "non-con" because consent is explicitly stated before the sex begins.

You doze on and off in one of the rear seats in the Razorcrest’s cockpit, the Kid snuggled up in your lap, his little face relaxed in sleep, ears soft, and you occasionally stroke them. When you do his little feet twitch and he almost  _ purrs _ with contentment.

Mando, the ship’s captain, is below, asleep in his bunk.

You drift outside the orbit of Bardotta; Mando has just completed a lucrative job there. He’d been on the move on-planet for thirty-six hours and had come back to you  _ exhausted. _

Of course, not that you could see that on his face.

You heard it in the slower than usual drawl through the helmet’s com. Saw it in the slump of his shoulders.

When he’d picked up the little guy and bent his forehead to the little one’s, you’d melted.

Only then had the Kid curled up on you and slept, at peace now his father had returned safely.

****

Hours later, you’re doggedly eating one of the ration bars Mando - that isn’t his name, you know that - keeps on-ship. They taste of - well, not a lot actually, but you don’t mind today, because  _ today, _ Mando is navigating to Kiros to buy supplies.

_ What is his name? _

Jimas?

Rodric?

“You excited, baby?” You ask the kid, who gurgles in your arms. “Real food. I can’t wait to cook.”

“I can’t wait to eat it,” Mando drawls from the pilot’s seat.

You look at the set of his shoulders. He seems rested. He’d slept for damn near fourteen hours. In the end, the kid had dragged you down to his father’s closed pod door, crying and scraping his tiny claws on the door.

“Mando!” You’d shouted. “You need to eat!”

A commotion had come from within. Eventually, he’d stirred. Helmet in place, but, a  _ little _ askew. A tuft of hair peeking out, the shade of the much-loved chocolate only available on Empire-controlled planets.

You hadn’t mentioned seeing it. In a few moments, when you’d looked again, he had tucked it away.

Now, you asked, “You like my cooking?” From behind Mando.

“I’ve gotten used to it.” 

But you hear the smile in his voice.

He likes your cooking. You know that much from the empty plates that come back when he’s finished eating in private, in that little pod where he sleeps.

The plates are practically licked clean.

But lately you’ve had to make do with ration bars and what little dried food you’ve saved.

You’re fussier than Mando. Usually if it’s safe enough to land the Razorcrest, after his job is done, he’ll hang back on the ship with the Kid while you go to market, buying as much as you can carry. A full pantry makes you so happy.

You know what it is like to lay awake at night hungry. To be tempted to swallow handfuls of dirt just so your stomach doesn’t clench around thin air.

When Mando found you, you were huddling in a dark storage room, trembling from the cold and from the sounds of blaster fire.

The news that he’d killed your captor had been welcome - but tempered by the fact that this tall, broad man in a visor now technically owned you.

He’d given you a choice - he would leave you where he had found you, unharmed, or give you a ride to wherever you wanted to go.

There had been nothing for you to stay for on Malastare. You had no skill in podracing, and although you’d learned to tend to the vehicles well, the racers knew you were a slave and worked for nothing. Why would they pay you now? One of them would likely look to become your master.

_ Master. _ The word still made you want to vomit.

You’d taken the armoured man up on his offer - only to find he wasn’t alone on the ship.

You got the feeling that the little green child was just as wounded as you; just as hesitant.

But if Mando had won the kid’s trust, then that was good enough for you.

After two weeks together, waiting for bounties, Mando had asked if you’d consider staying. You knew he’d seen you curled up with the Kid.

And the three of you had fallen into a rhythm.

It  _ certainly _ beat fixing podracers for meagre rations of food and the hard bed of a storage room floor.

Most days you played the name guessing game with yourself.

Rafe?

Vekis?

“Almost there. You ready?” Mando asked over his shoulder, hands working the ship controls, perfectly adept.

Sometimes - more and more lately, actually - you touched yourself to the thought of his hands. Gloved, ungloved - you’d take it however he chose to give it to you.

“I’m ready.”

“Good. You’ll need to keep the Kid hidden. Like we practiced.”

“I remember.” You’d used one of mando’s spare cloaks as a sort of head and shoulder wrap, carrying the Kid like a baby at your breast, all but his eyes covered.

“The market should be too busy for anyone to much notice us,” your armoured guardian continued. “But I’d rather not take chances.”

“Not with this little one.”

Grogu cooed; snuggled.

Mando landed smoothly. It was rare that a landing went badly. The ship’s mechanics had come on leaps and bounds too, since Mando had allowed you to tinker. He’d been sceptical when you’d explained your experience with podracers, looking at you as if you’d asked to operate on his first born child.

However, he was no idiot. Once you’d proved your ability, he’d let you run with it, taking on board your suggestions for improvements here and there.

You wrapped up the kid, packed some snacks (as he wouldn’t be able to run amok here and eat the local wildlife), and followed Mando down the ramp of the ship.

He walked with a slight swagger - confident, adept, never arrogant. 

He held his power tightly banked, like a saber cat, all cool grace until he struck; you’d never see him coming.

Did he have  _ any _ idea how much you wanted him?

You get the feeling that although the viewing gap in his visor is small, his gaze misses nothing. What colour would his eyes be?

The ship closes up, keeping your secrets for you, and, with the Kid snuggled safely against you like a nursing babe, the two of you walk towards the hustle and bustle of the market, visible in a valley below the rise Mando landed on.

You walk in companionable silence. Mando isn’t much of a talker at the best of times.

You often daydream about getting him to open up. Tell you something about him; anything. His name. Where he grew up.

How he came to take the mantle of The Mandalore.

Would he tell you? Or would he keep the secrets he hoarded so effectively behind that stoic helmet?

It’s not long before you reach the market. You swallow as the anticipation of fresh food makes you salivate; your stomach growls. The Kid stirs and you pat his little back. “Soon.”

The first stall you come to is dates. The seller offers one and you take it, break it in half, and sneak the piece you don’t eat to the Kid.

Mando and the seller bargain a little before a price is struck, and hey presto, you’ve got a bag of succulent dates.

“Can’t just buy sweets,” Mando says, but there’s indulgence in his tone when you stop at a stall hawking little squares of gelatine, floral-flavoured and dusted with sugar.

“Just one bag? For long journeys?” You say.

The visor studies you.  _ What is he thinking? _

“Your sweet tooth is insatiable,” he mutters eventually.

“And yours isn’t?” you challenge, smiling. “You’ll be glad of something sweet once we’re back in space.”

He responds with something you don’t quite hear, because the hawker thrusts a platter in your face. You pluck a sweetmeat off the aged metal dish. It melts on your tongue, the sugar tingling.

The Kid squeaks inside your wrap.

“You gotta stop,” Mando grouses, his voice low in your ear. “If he keeps smelling food, he’s gonna get out. Then we’re borked.”

“Okay, okay.”

You hand over credits to the stallholder for a small bag of the treats, feed one to the Kid. 

“That’s all for now, little one.”

He coos from within.

You wonder what Mando’s smile looks like.

You’ve been wondering that for years, seems like.

You’re all business from then on, gathering fresh meat, vegetables, and bags of grain to sustain the three of you (although the Kid would exist solely on frogs and kiros eggs, if he could), and then starting to turn back toward the ship.

The Kid squirms in the wrap.

“What is it, little guy?”

You’re passing a stall selling herbs and fresh flowers, and you just… stop.

“Come on,” Mando mutters.

“I… can’t.”

He places a hand at the small of your back. Pushes, gently. But you don't budge, you  _ can't move _ , held in place by an invisible force. 

“Kriff,” he groans. “Kid,  _ quit it.” _

There’s snuffling from inside your wrap.

“He wants something from this stall,” Mando adds, his voice pitched low. It’s  _ hot. _ You swallow.

“Okay kiddo,” you whisper. “Show me.”

Mando takes the bag you’re already carrying. You watch as your hands move towards the stallholder’s wares, select a cloth bag.

“Ah!” The weathered man cries. “My finest Marble Berry tea! As fine a beverage you will ever find. I brew it myself, it will make you-”

“How much?” Mando interjects.

“My good man, first, I must tell you-”

“How. Much.”

The stallholder glances at you and winks, which you don’t understand, but the longer you stand here, the longer the Kid is in danger, and if he’s in danger, all three of you are.

“Please,” you add.

The stallholder names a price which seems a little inflated, but you aren’t in control of your hands as you pay. Finally the Kid’s little hand on your skin withdraws and you’re in charge of your motor functions again.

“Phew,” you sigh, as you and Mando finally leave the throng of the market behind.

“What the  _ kriff _ was that, Kid?” Mando demands as you start to ascend the hill towards the Razor Crest.

The little green guy pokes his head out from the wrap you’ve cocooned him in, and tilts his head, big eyes wide and innocent.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mando grumbles, but again, you hear the smile in the rasp of his voice. “All that for  _ tea.” _

“It’d better be the best damn tea in the galaxy,” you chuckle as the ship comes into view, and the Kid presses his wrinkly little face into your neck. He’s warm and you revel in how he trusts you.

You all settle in, and you pack the new food away before Mando starts the ship up. Once you’re safely in orbit, waiting for another job, you give the Kid something that smells like chicken and then realise that you’re thirsty.

“Want some of that tea?” You ask Mando.

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “If you’re making some.”

You strap the kid into his seat. He’s cleaning off his little hands after his snack. You busy yourself with the tea. It smells sweet, tempting, like red berries.

The Kid looks up, curious, and you offer him your cup but he pushes it away with a tiny snort.

“Suit yourself. Here, Mando.”

Your Captain takes the drink and turns back to the controls. The back of his cockpit chair is tall, and you hear him drinking, know he’s tipped the helmet up, but you don’t see anything as you, too, sip the tea.

It warms you from the inside out, setting a pleasing fire in your belly.

A noise sounds from behind you and you see the Kid trying to climb into his pod.

“Sleepy, buddy?”

He mewls and you pick him up, set him inside. He flicks the lever to close the doors.

Mando half-laughs from the pilot seat. “Big day for the Kid, huh.”

“The biggest! A trip out  _ and _ he used his little magic hands.”

You finish your tea. Mando places his empty cup on a space within the control panel.

“Is it warm in here?” You ask eventually.

Too hot is something you have rarely been on this ship.

You see Mando tense in his seat; just a shift of his shoulder, but you’re around him so much that you’ve learned to read his every nuance.

“Gettin’ uncomfortable,” is all he says.

Has his voice  _ always _ been so deep? Always set your nerves on fire?

Well, yes.

But not like  _ this. _

If only he would  _ touch _ you.

Your face. Your shoulder. Anywhere.

But  _ especially… _

You ache to touch your breasts. Between your legs.

There’s only the one bunk on the Razorcrest, so you tend to sleep in the little lean-to by the cargo hold. There’s a curtain for privacy and Mando made sure you had pillows and blankets, but it isn’t private.

When you’ve touched yourself to the thought of him touching  _ you, _ you’ve waited until he’s ensconced in his bed.

But if you stay here, you’re gonna do something stupid.

You open your mouth to excuse yourself, but Mando stands up first.

“Gonna get some rest,” he says, but his voice is scratchy. Raspy.

_ Needy. _

“Are you okay?”

He moves past you, and his hand brushes your shoulder.

He wears gloves; you wear your tunic.

But it’s enough.

“Mando,” you whisper.

“ _ Dammit, _ ” he curses, his hand clenched on your shoulder. “The tea.”

A laugh escapes your lips. “The tea the  _ kid _ chose?”

“Uh huh.”

“But…”

You glance at the pod. It remains tightly closed.

“I have to go,” Mando says shortly.

But he doesn’t move.

You lean down, press the lightest of kisses to his gloved hand. His scent fills your nostrils; weapon oil and leather and the fresh-outdoors smell from the market, and it makes the ache between your legs a thousand times worse.

“I need you,” you whisper.

He clenches and unclenches his hand. The visor tilts down towards you. You  _ wish _ you could feel his hair. His lips on yours. 

Just his bare hand.

“The tea is some kind of drug. Isn’t it.”

He nods, tightly. “Libido enhancer. I should’ve been paying attention. Was... occupied tryin’ to protect the kid.” He pauses. “And you.”

“Mando…”

“ _ Din. _ ”

You blink at the unfamiliar word. “What?”

“My name is Din.”

“Din.” You try it out on your tongue. It feels heavy and soft at the same time, somehow. “Thank you… for sharing that with me.”

“It’s about the only thing I… can share. With you.”

Something crackles between you, something electric.

“The Creed.”

He nods. “No living thing has seen me without my helmet.”

You brush your lips over his gloved knuckles. “What about touch?”

You can imagine him blink as he says; “what?”

“Touching. What about touching? If I don’t look?”

He inhales deeply. You can almost  _ see _ the thin thread of control he’s hanging on to.

“Please,” you add.

The heat is radiating off him in waves even through the beskar. His hand tenses under your lips.

“ _ Dammit,” _ he mutters.

You face each other for three heartbeats, at an impasse. Your body is burning up. You cup your own breast with your free hand to relieve the ache, and sigh out loud at the pleasure.

“ _ Kriff, _ ” Din groans.

You stand up. “I’m - I have to-” Every cell in your body is burning up, and if Din won’t touch you, you’re going to have to make do with your own hands.

“Come with me.” He leans over, sets the autopilot on, and then you follow him down the ladder to the hatch he sleeps in.

“I-”

“Pitch dark in there, when the shutter’s down,” he murmurs, voice so low you barely hear him through the helmet’s filter.

_ Oh. _

You scramble inside before he can change his mind. It’s so dark, even with the shutter open.

“Close your eyes,” he rasps.

You hear the shutter closing-

The  _ thunk _ of a helmet hitting the bedroll.

“You can look, now.”

It’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face. 

“Din, I-”

And he’s on you, barrelling into you like a big soft bear, and you realise he’s shirked the armour, and  _ oh, Kriff, _ he feels so good, and all the nerve endings set on fire by the tea are quenched by the scratch of his patchy stubble on your face, under your hands as you scrabble to touch him everywhere,  _ anywhere. _

“Din,” you whisper.

“Love… my name in your voice,” he mutters, and  _ oh, _ his unfiltered vocals chords are pure sin. You spear your fingers into his hair and it’s thick and soft as tattered silk. “Again.”

“Din,” you say, lovingly, and he presses you down into the give of the bedroll and you spread your legs. He moves between them and he’s hard and hot through layers of fabric, and the ache in your belly is  _ unbearable. _ You arch up under him and he bites off an expletive against your neck, and the scratch of his stubble sets your skin aflame.

“More,” you beg, and you hold his head to your neck and he worries your sensitive skin between his teeth. It’ll leave a little mark, and thinking of him putting his claim on you makes you wetter.

“Want you,” he grinds out against your skin.

“Take me.”

You think he’ll strip you right then, but instead he moves down your body. When the  _ delicious _ weight of his erection leaves the softness of your belly you groan in protest, but when he’s pushing up your tunic and his mouth is on your nipple, and it’s  _ divine. _

You clench one hand in his hair and use the other to search for  _ his _ other hand, bring it to your untouched breast. He’s a quick study, and  _ oh, _ the touch of his bare hands, palms blaster-callused, nearly makes you come there and then. He worships your breasts, worrying your nipple and then cupping the weight of the soft globe, until you’re writhing underneath him. You arch your back and press into his mouth and it makes him buck into you, trying to press into you through your clothes.

“More,” you gasp again, and then he’s sliding off your clothes, finding each new inch of skin and pressing his lips to it, stroking you with his wonderfully callused hands, and his touch sends sparks travelling all over, lighting you up, where you hadn’t known there was so much darkness.

While he kisses his way down your stomach, towards the place you  _ burn _ for him, you busy yourself by dragging at his tunic, pulling it up so you can spread your greedy palms over the expanse of his back.

He’s got scars aplenty, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment.

“One day,” you whisper, “One day, Din, I’m gonna kiss all of these better.”

He stills for a moment, and you feel him swallow. 

“Okay,” he whispers, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard his voice so raw.

You stroke his hair back from his forehead for a moment, and then he continues kissing a path down your body. You stop him for a moment to tug his tunic over his head, tossing it away into the darkness of the pod, where neither of you miss it.

When he reaches the waistband of your loose fabric trousers, he pauses a second, the whisper of his breath warm on your skin.

“Do it,” you plead.

He eases the fabric down - you’ve no underwear, you had precious little to your name when Din found you, and you need to save what spare cloth you do have for your bleed each moon - and presses his face to your cunt and you hear him inhale, greedily.

And you think you’ll never get enough of the sound of him  _ just breathing you in _ with no helmet filter in the way.

Then he gets to work learning you with his fingers and lips and tongue, and you think you’re floating, because it feels too good to be anything real in this Galaxy.  _ He _ feels too good. Before long your thighs are shaking with the sensations driving through your body. You fist your hands on his shoulders - smooth, broad, without the tunic on - and moan his name.

“Just like that,” he says, his voice husky. “Just like that.”

And you splinter apart under his talented tongue, clenching around his fingers as stars explode behind your closed lids. You chant his name like a prayer as he works you through it, until your entire body is trembling. You push gently at his head when you’re too sensitive, and he commando-crawls up you to kiss your lips.

You taste yourself and it somehow makes the heat inside you, heat for  _ him _ burn all over again.

“Off,” you mutter, your fingers working at the ties of his breeches, and Din bucks into your hand. You stroke him through the fabric, fisting him, your inner muscles contracting, greedy to feel him against your walls.

“Need you, sweet girl,” he bites off against your lips, and his patchy stubble scratches deliciously as he cups your face in one big hand, and you would never have known that all this softness, all this  _ emotion, _ lay under the imposing beskar.

He gently pushes your hand away from his cock and you pout. “Wanted to taste you.”

“ _ Fuck. _ Later.” He’s kicking off his pants then, and he lines himself up, and you feel the wet head of him brushing your folds.

“ _ Din, please!” _

“I-” You hear him swear softly. “Are you-”

“Implant. Please!” You wrap your legs around his thighs, pressing him closer, and finally he obeys and sinks into you-

And you both groan out loud, and it’s like coming home.

“I wanted you so long,” you cry, softly, hearing your own voice break on the last word.

“Me too, sweet, sweet girl,” Din rasps out, fucking up into you with a rhythm that is punishing, almost desperate. “ _ Fuck. _ Need-”

You feel his cock jerk inside you. Know he’s close.

You lift your legs, wrap them as high around him as you can, reach down to stroke the soft skin of his balls, and he almost growls, low in his throat, pushing himself up on his arms to reach a deeper angle. The press of him inside you, reaching so deep, sets off another orgasm, and you feel him emptying inside you. Your hearts pound together through your climaxes, and as you sigh, Din collapses on top of you.

You idly stroke his back, and he shivers a little with the sensation overload.

“Did you mean it?” He asks into the darkness.

“What?”

“That you... Wanted me. For a while.”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

He nuzzles into the curve where your neck and shoulder meet.

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

The darkness is complete, and, sated for now, you drift off into sleep.

**********

  
  


It’s no lighter when you wake. You feel lazy, languid, but once you feel Din’s hand cupping your breast, the fire rekindles.

“Din,” you whisper.

He snores softly.

You walk your fingers down his chest, orient yourself with his body in the darkness. Once you know where everything is, it’s easy to crawl under the covers to find his cock. He’s half-hard, and you stroke him between your greedy hands for a few moments. Above you, he moans your name, half-awake.

“Let me take care of you,” you say into the blackness.

His cock twitches. You take that as a yes.

He’s heavy on your tongue, skin velvet-smooth and warm, and he groans, long and low as you envelop him, tonguing the sensitive underside, learning his ridges and the texture of his most intimate skin.

“ _ Dammit, _ ” he bites off. “Can’t-”

You slide a hand up his body and he immediately links his fingers with yours, and the gesture is so sweet that your heart turns over. His fingers clench yours as he bucks into your mouth, and you feel the control he’s exerting over himself. You alternate between sucking him deep and little kitten licks, and jumbled praise and grunts fall from his lips, less coherent the closer he gets to orgasm.

His other hand cards through your hair.

“Want... to come… inside you.”

You push him on to his back, straddle him. You feel him take himself in hand and you lower yourself on to his steel-hard cock. The stretch is  _ bliss, _ it’s home, it’s everything.

Din thrusts up into you and you ride him, hands braced on his shoulders. You wish you could see his face - how would he look when he comes? When he empties himself inside you? Would the tendons in his neck stand out? Would he throw his head back - what?

And then his clever fingers worry your clit, just above where he’s fucking you, and you lose the ability for coherent thought.

When your muscles flutter and clench around him, he comes with a guttural moan, thrusting almost helplessly into you.

You slide bonelessly on to his broad, warm chest.

And you sleep.

**********

When you wake, the shutter is up, and you’re alone on the bedroll.

You blink - even the dim light here is a lot after the complete darkness - and dress, leaving the pod to find Din and the kid in the cockpit.

Din turns to you, helmet in place, but you  _ swear _ he’s smiling under the visor.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” You scoop up the kid from Din’s arms. “ _ You. _ ”

The Kid tilts his head, big eyes wide and innocent.

“You knew what was in the tea.”

The kid gurgles something that sounds a lot like:  _ who, me? _ And then looks between you and Din.

He coos something that you swear is:  _ it worked, didn’t it? _ Then blinks. Innocently.

Din shrugs, as if to say -  _ it did work. _

A laugh bubbles up in your throat and you grin, stupidly, your heart lighter than perhaps, it’s ever been.

The Mandalorian holds out his hand. You recognise it for the gesture it is, and you move into his arm. He tugs you on to his lap, and the three of you gaze out across the galaxy, knowing that whatever the vast expanse of it holds, you’ll face it together.

A family.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
